“Vaguely. Why? Charlotte, for goodness’ sake stop being so obscure! What on earth are you talking about?”
“Did you read of the murder of Dr. Hubert Pinchin in the newspapers yesterday, or this morning?”
“No, of course not.” Emily was on the edge of her seat now, her back ramrod stiff. “You know George doesn’t give me anything but the society pages. Who is Hubert Pinchin, and what has it to do with that unpleasant footman? Really, you can be extremely irritating!”
Charlotte settled more deeply into the cushions and recounted everything she knew.
Emily clenched her hands, crushing the shell-pink silk of her dress. “Oh dear-how very disgusting! But I never liked that man,” she added frankly. “He left the Balantynes, didn’t he-before the end of that affair, anyway?”
“Yes. It seems he became very successful as a procurer of women.”
Emily winced. “Then perhaps it was rather suitable that he was found in a gutter. And by a prostitute. Do you suppose God has a sense of humor? Or would that be blasphemous?”
“He created man,” Charlotte answered. “He must at the very least have a pronounced sense of the absurd. The newspapers say that Dr. Pinchin was perfectly respectable.”
“Then what was he doing in the Devil’s Acre? Did he take charity cases or something of the sort?”
“I don’t know. I expect Thomas will find out.”
“Well, any man of quality who wanted to pick up a loose woman for the evening would go to a music hall, or the Haymarket. He wouldn’t go to some dangerous slum like the Devil’s Acre.”
Charlotte felt a little crushed. The mystery was fast dissolving in front of her. “Perhaps the women in the Haymarket were too expensive. If Max kept a brothel, there must be customers in the Devil’s Acre! If Dr. Pinchin was one of them-”
“Why kill him?” Emily interrupted with an irritating display of reason. “Nobody but an idiot kills his own customers.”
“Maybe his wife did.”
Emily raised her eyebrows. “In the Devil’s Acre?”
“Not personally, stupid! She may have hired someone. You would have to hate a person very much and in a particular sort of way to do that to him.”
Emily’s face lost its spark of amusement. “Of course you would. But, my dear, all sorts of men use loose women from time to time, and as long as they do it discreetly, a wife with any sense at all does not inquire into it. If a man does not offer explanations of where he has been, for the sake of one’s own happiness it is wiser not to press for them.”
Charlotte could think of no reply that was not either painful or naive. People must deal with their own truths as they were able.
Emily’s mind was on a different train. “Fancy that dreadful footman turning up again. He always made me uncomfortable. I wonder who provided the money for him to set up a brothel? I mean who owned the property and paid for an establishment? Perhaps it was Dr. Pinchin.”
But a far uglier thought forced itself into Charlotte’s mind, linked with memories of the Balantyne house, murder and fear in the past, and Max’s sudden, silent departure.
“Yes,” she agreed abruptly. “Yes, that may very well be so. I dare say Thomas will discover that.”
Emily gave her a narrow look, a flicker of suspicion, but she did not pursue it. “Will you stay for luncheon?”
As Charlotte was preparing for her visit with Emily, Pitt alighted from his cab and walked up to the front door of number 23 Lambert Gardens. It was a high house with a handsome frontage, though today, of course, the curtains were drawn and there was black crepe on the windows and a wreath on the door. The whole effect was one of a curious blindness.
There was no point in putting it off; he lifted his hand and knocked on the door. It was several minutes before an unhappy-looking footman opened it. Death in the house made him awkward; he had no idea how much grief he was expected to show, especially in these grotesque circumstances. Maybe he ought to pretend to ignore it. After all, what could he possibly say? The kitchenmaid had already given notice, and he was considering doing the same.
He did not recognize Pitt. “Mrs. Pinchin is not receiving callers,” he said hastily. “But if you care to leave your card, I am sure she will accept your condolences.”
“I am Thomas Pitt, from the police,” Pitt explained. “I do convey my sympathy to Mrs. Pinchin, of course, but I am afraid it is necessary that I also speak with her.”
The footman was painfully undecided about which of his duties was paramount: on the one hand, preserving the sanctity of mourning from such a crass invasion by a person of this sort, or, on the other hand, his undoubted allegiance to the majesty of the Law.
“Perhaps if you call the butler?” Pitt suggested tactfully. “And permit me not to wait upon the step while you do so. We do not wish to attract the attention and the gossip of the neighbors’ maids and bootboys.”
The footman’s face was almost comical with relief. It was the perfect solution. Gossip would be inevitable, but he had no intention of being blamed for adding to it.
“Oh-yes, sir-yes-I’ll do that. If you come this way, sir.” He led Pitt across the hall, which was filled with a faint odor as if none of the doors had been opened for days. The mirrors were black-draped like the windows. There was an arrangement of lilies in a pedestal vase; they looked artificial, though they were in fact real, and undoubtedly extremely expensive at this time of year.
The footman left Pitt in a room with a black-leaded grate and no fire. It was dark behind the drawn blinds, and it seemed as if the whole household were determined that even if the corpse of the master could not lie in his own home, they would order their domestic arrangements to imitate the chill of the grave.
It was only a few moments before Mr. Mullen, the butler, arrived, his thinning, sandy hair brushed neatly back and his face determined. “I am sorry, Mr. Pitt.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid it will be another half hour before Mrs. Pinchin is able to receive you. Perhaps you would like a dish of tea while you wait? It is a very inclement day.”
Pitt felt warmer already. He had respect for this man; he knew his job and seemed to perform it with more than ordinary skill.
“I would indeed, Mr. Mullen, thank you. And if your duties permit, perhaps a little of your time?”
“Certainly, sir.” Mullen pulled the bell rope and, when the footman answered, requested that a pot of tea be brought, with two cups. He would not have presumed to take refreshment with a gentleman caller, and a tradesman would have been sent through the green baize door to the kitchen. But he considered Pitt to be roughly his social equal, which Pitt realized was something of a compliment. A butler was in many senses the real master of a household, and might rule a staff of a dozen or more lesser servants. He might also have greater intelligence than the owner, and certainly inspire more awe from his fellows.
“Have you been with Dr. Pinchin long, Mr. Mullen?” Pitt began conversationally.
“Eleven years, Mr. Pitt,” Mullen replied. “Before that I was with Lord and Lady Fullerton, in Tavistock Square.”
Pitt was curious about why he had left an apparently superior employment, but was unsure how to ask him without giving offense. Such a question, as well as being against his regard for the man, would be professionally foolish at this point.
Mullen supplied the answer of his own accord. Perhaps he wished to clear himself from suspicion of incompetence. “They took the habit of going to Devon every winter.” A shadow of distaste crossed his face. “I did not care for the travel, and I have no wish to remain idle in an empty town house with a caretaking staff for several months of each year.”
“Indeed,” Pitt agreed with some sympathy. An estate in the home counties would be an entirely different thing, with hunt balls, shooting parties, and guests for Christmas, no doubt. But a retreat to the silence of Devon would be a form of exile. “And I should imagine Dr. Pinchin was not an uninteresting employer?” he said, trying to probe a little deeper.